There was a scent like honeycomb From mugwort dull. And down upon the dome Of the stone the cart-horse kicks against so oft A butterfly alighted. From aloft He took the heat of the sun, and from below.
“The prison is not outside, but inside each of us. Perhaps we simply don’t know how to live without it.”
Olga Tokarczuk | Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead
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